Nine Writeshttps://2bnine.wordpress.com
Stories across the RealmMon, 19 Mar 2018 00:40:58 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://s2.wp.com/i/buttonw-com.pngNine Writeshttps://2bnine.wordpress.com
Writers Anyone?https://2bnine.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/writers-anyone/
https://2bnine.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/writers-anyone/#commentsThu, 13 Sep 2012 17:17:32 +0000http://2bnine.wordpress.com/?p=664Sometimes I view my writing as a silly folly. Truthfully, I don’t know what it means to be a writer. What does a writer look like, act like, or think like? Can I play the part convincingly? I went to a writers’ Meetup group to find out.

In the corner of a Barnes and Noble, a group of writers set folding chairs in a circle. Some of them brought copies of their work to share, others came to listen and critique. The group’s moderator, a quiet and thoughtful man, invited members to introduce themselves.

I took notes. Here were people who wrote poetry, short stories, screen plays, memoirs, essays, and novels. None of them admitted to being a blog writer (including me). I wondered why.

For this meeting, writers brought flash or short works (1000 words or less). I brought a blog entry that fit the specs. For the next few hours, we shared and critiqued each other. The process takes courage, love, and spot-on feedback.

Toward the end of the meeting. the moderator reminded members to give him their web addresses. So that’s why no one admitted to being a blog writer – having a blog is a given. Gosh, I’m dumb. The moderator wanted to promote them on the MeetUp message board. Nice perk, right?

I know I have a lot to learn about being a writer. But at this Meetup, I learned that writers are real people just like me.

During Labor Day weekend, my husband decided to build a chicken tractor. What is a chicken tractor and why did he want to build one? Simple answer – someone at work talked him into it.

“It’s a mobile home for chickens,” he explained, “a coop and a run on wheels. The chickens will perform magic by changing a patch of ground into fertile garden space within a few weeks. We’ll move it so the chickens will make lots of garden plots. By spring, the plots will be ready for planting,” he told me. “What do you think?”

“Go chickens!” I said. “Let’s do it.”

“Great. I’ll take some time off work. We can build it this week.”

The fact that we didn’t know a cluck about raising chickens didn’t deter our enthusiasm. How hard could it be to build for chickens? After all, we’ve been building from scratch for years.

We researched building plans, inventoried our own stock of scrap materials, and foraged in hardware stores for materials we needed. Within a few days, we were ready to start building.

When my husband and I build together, my job is “the holder and go-fer”. This means I hold off the distractions (kids, phone calls, and visitors) and get necessities (food, beverages, and music to maintain the work rhythm). Occasionally, I’d hold a board in place for my husband to nail, but usually someone else does the heavy lifting (a daughter’s unwitting boyfriend trying to make a favorable impression).

Sadly, after years of observing my husband, none of his skills has transferred to me. I can’t even swing a hammer. Unfortunately, all other conscripts have flown away leaving me holding the screws and everything else. My poor husband has no idea how limited I am regarding basic carpentry skills.

“Hand me the square. It’s on my workbench.”

His workbench is not my domain. It is littered with tools, boxes of screws, deely-bop-its, and buckets of nails – a Home Depot garage sale on clearance. I needed a hint. “What color is it?”

“Yellow.”

Ah, that’s better. It’s easy to spot yellow in a grey area.

He placed the square on a piece of wood to mark a line. His pencil broke. He cussed. “Get me a pencil. No. Get me a pen.”

What were my chances of finding a pen on his workbench? I scrambled into the house to retrieve a box of pens on my desk.

The pens didn’t write on the damp wood. He cussed again. “I can’t figure out the angle for these rafters. Get me the angle guide.”

I handed him a metal object shaped like a triangle. “No, not that,” he said. Eggs-asperated by my lack of nomenclature knowledge, he huffed, “I should have said the ‘adjustable’ angle guide.”

By now my husband thinks I’m a wing nut. His instructions become more explicit.

During the next few days, I handed him screws, nails, boards, held up things, plugged in power tools, and picked up things he dropped. I cheered when pieces fit together and cussed when they didn’t. I cracked chicken jokes and made him laugh.

More than a few days later, we managed to build the basic frame. Our next step is making it mobile. I have a feeling we’ll nail this thing hens down.

Okay, no more fowl jokes.

For now, we’re thinking of names. Yes, we’re going to name our coop. Any suggestions?

I’m not an expert with social networking, but I have a Facebook account to connect with people I’m closest to, and I have a blog to connect with folks on the web. To my husband, a social network means a company picnic and his face on a billboard… I never expected there’d come a day when he’d be schooled.

When he returned from fishing, horns tooting and “Whoopie!” shouting, Marie and my husband flaunted their prizes and took pictures with their phones.

“Baby Beth, hold this up so I can take your picture,” Marie told her daughter.

“I don’t wanna. It’s icky,” Baby Beth said.

“Oh, common. I’ll help you,” said my husband.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

After taking several “good ones” with their smart phones, my husband and daughter compared their catches.

“I’m posting my shots on Facebook,” Marie declared, deftly tapping her phone. Within seconds, the picture of Baby Beth’s grimace holding an icky fish was shared with the world.

Marie hopped to the computer and logged in. “Mom, come look.”

“Oh, Lordy!” On the nineteen inch monitor flashed a picture of my granddaughter struggling with a dead 4lb. bass. At this very moment, our entire family could see them on Facebook. Ah…the wonders of the modern world.

“These are great. How can I print these out?” my husband asked, looking over my shoulder. My dear husband, bless his heart, does not know how to use the features on his smart phone. Marie, bless her heart, did not want to teach him how people pass around pictures nowadays.

“You need a Facebook account, Dad. I’ll set one up, if you want…”

He sighed, shook his head, and left. It was not his thing.

Marie and I seized the moment to introduce him to social media and all its glorious splendor. While he was outside cleaning the fish, Marie and I zip-lined him to the twenty-first century. We opened a Facebook account for him, uploaded his pictures (a profile, too!), and sent “friend” requests.

After dinner, Marie braved a Facebook demonstration on his smart phone. She had synced his accounts and showed him how to upload pictures and access his email.

During her lesson, he held his breath and concentrated. Yes! He’s taking it in, I thought. Within minutes, his eyes glazed. He blinked repeatedly. Oh, no. Marie had overloaded his microchips. The program is not responding. Do we wait or end program now? We waited.

It worked! We squealed as he accessed Facebook and patted him on the back as he opened his picture files. I can’t say he was delighted, but he grinned at our enthusiasm.

The next day, he slammed his phone on the table. “I hate Facebook.”

“Why?”

“My phone’s been vibrating all day. People keep leaving messages wanting to be “friends” on Facebook. I’m too busy for that crap.”

I took his phone and tapped off the notifications. Poor guy. He’ll still catch fish, but he won’t be using the networks of the twenty-first century.

Have a great weekend. And thanks for stopping by!

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]]>https://2bnine.wordpress.com/2012/08/31/facebook-smart-phones-and-fishing/feed/292bninePump Up (or Down) the Volumehttps://2bnine.wordpress.com/2012/08/30/pump-up-or-down-the-volume/
https://2bnine.wordpress.com/2012/08/30/pump-up-or-down-the-volume/#commentsThu, 30 Aug 2012 14:57:08 +0000http://2bnine.wordpress.com/?p=641Pump Up (or Down) the Volume. Well written take on the DPchallenge. When you think about it, blogging is the sound of a community.

]]>https://2bnine.wordpress.com/2012/08/29/blogging-sounds-for-3ww/feed/112bnineBy Luis Lima89989 (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia CommonsPoetry Lessons Missedhttps://2bnine.wordpress.com/2012/08/28/poetry-lessons-missed/
https://2bnine.wordpress.com/2012/08/28/poetry-lessons-missed/#commentsTue, 28 Aug 2012 17:50:45 +0000http://2bnine.wordpress.com/?p=609Lately I’ve been reminiscing about my days as a teacher. I miss watching children enjoy learning by trying the activities I created for them. One activity we did together was as much fun for me as it was for them. I’d like to share it with you today.

It’s called “Copycat”. Think of a poem you know and like. Now copy the style of the poem using your own theme or idea.

Here’s one from Sylvia Plath’s Mirror.

Computer

I am sleek and black. I have no thoughts of my own
Whatever you type, I save immediately
Just as you typed it, unedited or revised
I am not a critic, only a device —
The batch of nanoes, four-cornered
Most of the time I’m booted, clicking on a desk
It is hard, cluttered with paper. I have stayed on it so long
I think it is part of my hard drive. But I flicker.
Sleep mode and blank screens separate us over and over.

Now I’m a tablet. A woman bends over me
Searching the internet for what she wants
She turns to those search engines, google and yahoo
I show her favorites and posts on face book
She rewards me with giggles and tapping fingers
I am important to her. She opens and closes me.
With me she has news feeds and weather apps, and with me she
Shuts off the TV, like an ugly lamp.

As Hurricane Isaac threatens the Gulf, I am reminded of the devastating effects of nature. There’s something feral about hurricane winds. Your animal side responds to its howl. Can you outwit nature? Subdue it? Do you really have dominion?

“Mom, can we stay with you tonight?” It was Rachel. She, her husband, and their infant son lived in a mobile home surrounded by trees. “We’re supposed to evacuate on account of the hurricane. Mike’s on his way home from work, now. I’m scared, Mom. ”

“You have time. But please, honey, come as soon as you can. We’re getting ready for it. Bring everything you’ll need for the next several days just in case….” I said.

That night after the wind knocked out the power, we listened to news on a battery operated radio. My daughters, all of them, huddled in the living room and clung to every word of the emergency broadcast…A loud crash broke the concentration.

Armed with flashlights and rope, my husband and son-in-law left the house to investigate. The girls held hands and prayed. As I watched the men though the window, their flashlights illuminated blurs of their movement – the struggle to tie rope to the posts and tether themselves, their blown faces like distorted images in a fun house, the rain slamming them sideways.

When they returned, the girls threw questions at them. What happened? Did you see the barn? Are the horses okay? What was that noise?

“The sycamore, the one by the driveway, toppled over,” Mike reported.

“It’s okay,” my husband said, “it didn’t hit the propane tank.”

At this point, most of us were exhausted. We were tired of listening to the wind, the tinny radio voices, and the pelting rain. I blew out the candles and brought out blankets and pillows. We dosed.

In the light of dawn, the brightest light I had ever seen, we stumbled awake and gathered outside. I heard a scream.

In the blink of an eye, our yard had become a strange landscape. Toppled trees and branches obscured the view of the street, the barn, and the pond. A large oak lay across the front field. The top of an old cedar had hurled like a spear into Marie’s ragtop. She was still screaming. She loved that car.

We comforted each other and checked on our neighbors. All the people on our street were without electricity too, but no one was hurt. For the next several days, I would bond with my neighbors in ways I wouldn’t have otherwise. We held grilling parties to share thawing food, passed around generators for our well pumps, and took turns with chain saws to clear the road of fallen trees. A friend fixed Marie’s car.

Within a few weeks, our lives returned to normal, but we would never be the same. We learned about the power of people and the power of nature. United in humanity, we do have dominion.

Sometimes the lessons we learn in school aren’t found in a teacher’s plan book. This lesson was taught to a sixth grade class during the last century, but I will never forget what I learned from it.

“Who drank from my cup?” Mr. Skip hurled his voice at the rows of twelve-year-olds in his charge. A giant of a man, Mr. Skip disciplined with a rolling voice. We were bowling pins; he could knock us over just by breathing.

Silence.

“I want to know who drank from my coffee mug. Until someone comes forward, there will be no recess.”

Groans. Was this the end of recess as we knew it? Who among us would snitch or confess?

A hand jerked up, hoisted by a good angel and a pulley.

“I did it.”

Gasps. Billy? He’s here today?

When he came to school, which was not often, we usually knew it because his odor was unmistakable – fermented onions, Romano cheese, and cow shit. The kids teased him constantly. He fought back with dirty fists and kicks from his cardboard soles. His shirt tails hung to his knees while his filthy jeans frayed and dragged at the cuffs.

This unlikely game changer, a frail shadow of a boy, was the only obstacle between us and Dr. Death-of-Recess. Billy, the goat. He stood up and instantly became a warrior, a soldier, a hero.

“Oh, so you like my cup, Billy? Here, take it. Fill it with water.”

Billy smirked, winked at the class, and took the cup. He returned from the water fountain and handed the cup back to Mr. Skip.

By now, we understood Mr. Skip’s story book. No one would enjoy a happy ending with this script. Billy shrugged as if to say Is this all you’ve got? Bring it on. He drank the water a second time, a third, and a fourth. On the fifth fill Billy pleaded, “Aww… Mr. Skip…please…”

Mr. Skip’s eyebrows raised like a stage curtain and engaged Billy in a stare-down. One minute. Five minutes. Billy kept his eyes trained on Mr. Skip’s and brought the cup to his lips.

He drank, bowed for the curtain call, and promptly vomited.

Show over.

None of us made fun of Billy after that incident. Later, we saw him on the bus holding Mr. Skip’s cup like a trophy.

For the first time in over fifty years, I’m not preparing to enter a school building. When I stopped teaching and started writing full-time, I didn’t anticipate the feelings I’d have at the start of this school year. I feel like a blood hound sniffing for a lost scent. For Heaven’s sake, where are my crayons and wheat paste?

When you think about it, school consumes a large chunk of your life. You might be a student, a teacher, or a parent of a school-age child; sooner or later you’ll march through the doors of a school building. For many of you, that time is now.

As you poke through your school memories, you’ll find moments of truth. If you’d like, share them in a comment.